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The air went still and taut. Therez could still hear the fire hissing in its grate, but the noise was muted, as though a veil had dropped between her and the room. She felt a faint breeze against her cheek, smelled the scent of new-mowed grass.
… she knelt on the hard flagstones of the landing, scrubbing the floor with her brush where some fool of a serving girl had dropped a plate of berries. Those stains might never come out of the mortar, never mind the white stones that showed any dirt at all. Her hands ached. Her knees were stiff and sore. And the cold. You would think a grand palace would be warm, but it was never warm in the north, not even in summer …
It was a life dream—she recognized the intensity at once—and she was part of it. Then her thoughts dipped again into her grandmother’s. She saw a vast white staircase curving above and below her, felt the cold hard stones against her knees, and heard …
She heard footsteps ringing off the stairs. Hurriedly she dragged the bucket into the corner and wiped the stones dry. Just in time for the man—he looked like a starving bird with great black eyes, she thought—to round the corner. A young woman dressed in layers of robes followed him. She wore an emerald set in her cheek, a blood-red ruby in her ear. It was the younger prince of Károví and his betrothed. They never notice us, she thought. Invisible is what we are. She liked that.
The young woman paused. Her gaze dropped to the old woman’s.
And within her grandmother’s thoughts, Therez felt a shock of recognition. I know her.
“Therez!”
Therez jerked her head up. Isolde Zhalina stood in the doorway. Her face was hard to read in the dim light, but her stance was rigid, her voice anxious. Behind her flitted the shadow of a maid—Lisl or Mina. “Therez, what are you doing here?” her mother said. “It’s late.”
Only now did Therez hear the bells ringing—much louder than before. The air in the room had turned chill—the fire had died—and there came to her the scent of cold ashes, overlaid by a stronger, greener scent. An hour had vanished without her knowing it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot about the time. I—”
“Never mind. Dress and come downstairs as soon as you can. I’ll talk to your father.”
Therez brushed a hand over her grandmother’s forehead. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the berry-stained flagstones, the wash of pale sunlight over the walls, which were as white as a snowdrift. Then she was running to her own rooms, stumbling because her legs were cramped and stiff. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Do not give my father an excuse for anger.
Four maids waited there, along with her mother’s senior maid. As soon as she appeared, Asta called out orders to everyone, including Therez, urging them all through the preparations: The scented bath. The powder applied to Therez’s skin and then dusted off. The layers of clothes, from the stockings and linen undershift to the silken gown that fell in pleats from the high ribboned waist. Therez felt more like a puppet than a girl as she obeyed polite requests to tilt her head this way and that, or to hold perfectly, perfectly still while a maid stitched an errant pearl back onto the lace of Therez’s overgown. Another maid applied perfume and the merest dab of color to her lips. All the while, her veins buzzed with excitement.
Or was that the magic?
“Nearly ready, Mistress Therez. Margrit, I need— Ah, good, you have them.”
Asta plucked a long shimmering ribbon from the hands of a waiting girl. Deftly she wound it through Therez Zhalina’s loosely bound hair, while another maid slid the dancing slippers on Therez’s feet. The air smelled of lightly spiced perfume, of fresh wildflowers, and a cloud of steam lingered from the bathwater. One of the maids hummed softly as she tidied up.
“Another length of ribbon, Margrit. Eva, set out the pearls.”
Asta swiftly fastened the pearls into Therez’s hair. “All ready.”
Therez stood, ready to run downstairs, but Asta stopped her with a gesture. “Stop,” she cried. “Take one look before you go. For good luck.”
Therez paused and blinked at the long mirror. At first she saw only a swath of colors—the silken gown the color of ripe apricots, the pale golden lace of her overgown, her long black hair gathered back with ribbons that matched her gown. Pearls glinted in the lamplight when she moved her head. Only when she blinked again did she see herself clearly. A small slim figure, very much like her mother in that, if nothing else. Everything else belonged to her father—her dark eyes, canted above full cheekbones, the same coppery-brown complexion of the borderlands of Veraene and Károví. She felt the brush of cool air against her cheek, though her rooms were warm and close, and a rippling sensation beneath her skin that excited and unsettled her at the same time. Magic, lingering in her blood.
“You look like a shining jewel, Mistress,” Asta said softly.
I look like a gift, wrapped and tied with decorations.
But she only murmured a thank-you for the compliment and hurried from her rooms. Immediately, she ran into her brother, who took her hand. “What took you so long?” he said. “He’s waiting.”
“Is he angry?” she asked
Ehren hesitated. “Anxious.”
Which meant he was more than angry.
They sped down the stairs and through the public salles. Streamers bedecked the galleries; the woodwork and tiles gleamed from polishing. Paschke and his musicians stood together in a corner, tuning their strings to their song pipes. A singer stood apart, eyes closed, doing her breathing exercises. Therez wished she could stop to speak with Paschke, but her brother beckoned impatiently. She tore herself away, hoping that her father did not blame her mother.
Too late. They arrived at the entry hall to find Petr Zhalina standing close to their mother, delivering a swift intent lecture in undertones. Therez could not hear his words, but she saw her mother’s blank face, the footman with his gaze averted. She hurried forward ahead of Ehren. “Papa, I’m sorry—”
Her father broke off his lecture. He turned abruptly around to face Therez. She shrank back, but he said nothing more than “Thank you for your promptness, Therez.”
He would say more later, she thought. He always did.
